


The Opera House

by oxforddrama



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004)
Genre: F/M, OCs - Freeform, caroline - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 06:13:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12524824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxforddrama/pseuds/oxforddrama
Summary: Caroline Vasseur got the chance of a lifetime to perform at the Palais Garnier for the show Rigoletto. While there, she meets a man who lives beneath the theatre, in a glittering dungeon-esque home: the Phantom of the Opera.





	The Opera House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [editoress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/editoress/gifts).



> This was a prompt sent to me by @editoress some time ago, and I wanted to also publish it here, because I was fairly proud of it. It involves an OC (original character) for my novel, Caroline Vasseur, inserted into the 'Phantom of the Opera' universe. Given Caroline's demeanor, I wanted to see how she might actually influence and diffuse the situation, rather than almost fall prey to the characters' whims. 
> 
> Some other notes about Caroline: My friend chose this setting because Caroline has operatic training and in my novel, she is a performer in a circus, a vocal performer.

Before the callback, Caroline Vasseur believed the brassy gold glittering the halls and theatre of the Paris Opéra House to be gaudy. She preferred softer, warming shades of gold. Like the rose gold of her favorite corset’s bracing, or the orange-y gold of her vanity at home. Those were nice golds, forgivable golds. Caroline hadn’t much reason to look upon the yellow undertones of a gold, like the gold of Palais Garnier, with pleasure until she was  _there_ , swimming in the beat of its shine, the color dripping off every corner, twinkling in the ire of her fiery eyes. The same eyes that looked stunning and daunting as they swam with glee at every sight observed. Caroline Vasseur may have had curls bouncing with shades of red, and green eyes that could cut any glare in half, but her personality was flame-retardant. Her nature was nothing but kind and gentle. It was only in the throes of her coloratura where small sparks of hot light shown.

The first time Caroline entered the Parisian theatre, she felt chills run down her spine, and her handler had to catch her as she stumbled a bit. With cane in hand, and caring arm at her beckon, Caroline kept her balance steady. She found her eyes immediately draw up to the ceiling as she observed the angelic and classical paintings spread-out between twinkling light fixtures. From where she stood in the foyer she saw flesh of curves and muscle, arms reaching out to one another, horses, creatures with wings, flowing dresses and faces of peace and heaven-sent joy and pain. Caroline brought her eyes back down to the polished floor and the pillars and curvatures of the structured walls. She imagined it at night with a darker background and brighter lights, hordes of men and women dressed in beautiful clothing, tickets in hand and rapid hearts anxious to take in the performance of the night. Caroline’s heart began to pound.  **“Oh goodness me,”**  she whispered. 

A hand she wasn’t sure she recognized met her shoulder.  **“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”**  a gruff voice said. 

Shaken, but not wholly deterred from her place, Caroline gave a small hop of fright and turned slowly on her heel to see a man with part of his face hidden beneath a hood. Careful not to judge the man for his appearance - given the winter winds were swarming in on the city - Caroline gave a polite smile.  **“Very beautiful,”** she replied, sincerely. She looked behind her, to the enlarged double-doors that likely opened to the theatre room - a gaping auditorium she had yet to meet - and turned back to find the hooded man had disappeared. Her handler gave a small shrug. Caroline couldn’t help but feel as though the man was still there somehow, lurking. The chill she had felt upon entering Palais Garnier a few moments earlier returned. She hoped it was just the changing of the seasons. 

This time a new man with a distinctively curly mustache, peppered with grey and white came out from a side room and into the foyer, looking discriminatory at Caroline; as if the man were expecting someone else. His figure was lanky and tall with bony fingers grasping what looked like important forms on a clipboard. Caroline’s handler stood in front of her with guarded, stretched arms - as if Caroline were on the passenger side of a parent’s car awaiting a jolting seize of breaks. She grinned sweetly in back of his head while the two men examined each other with posturing machismo. 

 **“I can’t stress enough how important tonight’s performance is, Miss,”** the man said. His French accent protected his words in a sheen of snootiness. 

 **“Oh, I know!”**  Caroline beamed from over her handler’s shoulder and pushed her way in front.  **“I honestly can’t wait.”**

The experience of finally singing at such a prestigious opera house still felt surreal for the redhead. And as beautiful as the foyer’s introduction might have been, all Caroline truly wanted was to bum-rush past any theatre caretakers and find the nearest dressing room to begin practicing her runs and comb through her hair. She wanted to see the dresses that she might get to wear, the makeup, maybe even the wigs. Perhaps she’d get a classic powdered wig that stood miles-high atop her head. Or blush so rouge and powdery that she glowed all the way to the back row. Her excitement was halted by the French man’s determination to get his paperwork in order, however. He cleared his throat rather violently and clicked his tongue as he examined the clipboard in his hand.  **“Your dressing room is down this hall, fourth door on the left,”**  he said, pointing without looking to a decoupage-esque door behind him. **“It’s a large room with many vanities, and a few curtains for changing into costume. You will meet the crew and rest of the cast there, don’t dawdle. We are doing one last rehearsal before curtains-up, and that’s the only chance you get to test your lungs before the show. Don’t waste it.”**

Caroline inspected the man’s mustache with a curious smile and gave an eager nod when he was through instructing her.  **“Got it.”**  She left the handler to his fate in the foyer and traveled down the darkened corridor towards her destiny. 

The silence of the afternoon tightened at Caroline’s core; she could hear every  _clack_ of her heels and cane against the marbled flooring as she edged closer to the room. She felt un-alone, and Caroline was beginning to think that the hooded man she saw before was a ghost haunting her every move. A brush of wind moved past her, but she could hardly anchor the cane to turn fast enough. She wrapped an arm around her torso to brace her stomach against the butterflies. Caroline was desperate to make it to the vanity and sit for the first time since entering the building. She turned the corner and was met with the twinkling lights of multiple vanity mirrors - some concave, some convex - and remnants of face powder still floating in the air from the last makeup artist’s performance. She was alone, but she delicately closed the door to the room behind her, relieved to not feel the pressure-point of her ghost against her back. 

Caroline climbed up and down her operatic scales with ease and vibrato, powering towards her high notes – the depth of her falsetto unparalleled. A curtain not too far from her shifted and she stopped her scale mid-run. The air became thick with tension as Caroline tried to assess if the new presence was corporeal or less.

 **“Didn’t mean to startle you, madam. Apologies,”** a shrill woman’s voice said. The elderly woman appeared from behind a hidden storeroom with a small box in each arm.

 **“Oh, please don’t apologize to me,”**  Caroline replied as coolly as possible.  **“Just first night jitters.”**

 **“The company has been working hard for this one,”**  the woman replied. Her voice had a natural vibrato that intrigued Caroline.  **“I am sure that the theatre will be packed!”** After a pause and a huff, putting down her boxes, the woman turned to the redhead.  **“I’m Rosetta,”**  the woman continued.  **“The wigmaker and makeup guru here at the opera house.”**

“ **Caroline Vasseur,”**  Caroline replied smiling brightly. The singer turned back to her vanity mirror and examined her face and hair, wondering what might be done to it tonight.  **“When might the others arrive?”** she asked.

 **“Oh, soon enough,”** Rosetta replied, absentmindedly, while rummaging through one of her boxes.  **“A couple of the performers are recurring, and love to remind everyone… So, get ready. They’ll likely be right on time or fashionably late enough to worry the entire crew.”** Rosetta rolled her eyes and Caroline giggled.

Another chill. Caroline was dreading that feeling.  **“Rosetta… May I ask you a somewhat silly question?”**

**“Sure, dear.”**

**“Is the Palais Garnier haunted?”**

Rosetta stopped sifting through her stuff, coming out victoriously with a short, powdered wig with curls. Caroline smiled at the assurance that there  _would_ be powdered wigs and waited politely for an answer. The elderly woman sat down on the nearest stool and faced Caroline with a smile.  **“What makes you asks about a haunting?”** Her head was cocked to the side in inquisition.

**“I thought I met a hooded man earlier, but now I think I just saw a ghost…”**

**“A hooded man, you say?”**

**“Yes, ma’am.”**

**“Any specific features…?”**

**“Nothing really. Gruff voice, wore a hood hiding most of his face, appeared then disappeared, and ever since… I can’t shake this chill…”** Caroline would have opted for giving a small shimmy, but she didn’t need to shift her balance off course for show.

Rosetta thought about the description and her expression changed subtly.  **“Ah, no we are not haunted,”**  she replied.  **“But it certainly can feel that way in these longer corridors.”**

Caroline nodded, not sure if the woman was putting on airs, but too polite to insinuate such.  **“Am I going to wear one of those wigs?”** she asked Rosetta excitedly. The woman smirked.  **“Yes, I’m going to do yours up nicely, don’t you worry!”**

**...**

Every rehearsal prior to this moment, this first show, had been in a small place in a neighboring burrow with only some of the performers working out their acts together. Caroline had attended every rehearsal and optional meeting. She was eager to learn all the she could about the vision for the show and her part in it. Their last dress rehearsal had finally included everyone, but Caroline didn’t have time to meet any of the big-name performers. The more tenured singers dropped in and out so quickly, she had to assume they had no plans to meet any new acts this year. Which was a shame, Caroline thought. She thought she made a rather nice first impression.

Aside from those brief and icy non-encounters, Caroline Vasseur - up and coming operatic performer for the ages, or she hoped - was elated to see everyone in the vanity room at once. Corsets were tied, flowing dresses and capes billowed behind performers as they raced from mirror to mirror and crew member to crew member. Some made outlandish demands, some ran through runs nervously, some fiddled with their wigs, some applied more powder to their noses. Caroline sat on her stool, looking around with a bright smile, hands folded primly in her lap. Rosetta appeared from the storeroom and winked at the redhead. The elderly hand fixed a tall wig to one alto’s head.  **“Dear, would you go get your wig from the back room, please?”**  she asked Caroline.  **“I’m going to have my hands full with Margaret’s.”** The omission from the woman was thick with exasperation. Margaret, the alto sitting under the wig, groaned. Caroline braced herself on the weight of her cane as she stood up and headed back there, smiling politely in the direction of Rosetta before letting the curtained door close behind her. She imagined that Rosetta’s old bones were growing tired these days.

The storeroom was chillier than Caroline expected and she moved a little faster through it, between stacked shelves, in an attempt to get out as soon as she could. She noticed a small trail of cotton, synthetic hair and twine leading to a large box in the back. Sure enough, multiple wigs were inside. On top was her pink-hued powdered wig. Caroline was excited about the shade, actually, and had executed a little dance when she saw it during the dress rehearsal earlier in the afternoon. Caroline carefully reached down into the box and pulled it out. When she turned around she almost walked into a figure. She let out a small shriek before recognizing who it was - or rather, as much as she could. It was the hooded man from before.  **“Didn’t mean to frighten you,”** he apologized, gruff tone in his voice ever-present.  **“I saw you wandering in here, and I thought I might be of some help…”** His head moved in the direction of her cane, signifying that his gaze had made its way to her ‘disability’. There was a muffled sound coming from the dressing room that sounded like the singers warming up. They felt like a million miles away. The hooded man’s figure shadowed nearly all of Caroline and the wall behind her, the cooled temperature of its aged brick breathing heavily on her back.

Caroline realized the stranger was trying to be helpful and gave a nervous smile.  **“Thank you,”**  she replied and bowed her head. Caroline held out the heavy wig in a gesture of acceptance. The man took the wig gently from her grip and stored it under an arm under his cloak. She could feel the man staring up at her, but she still couldn’t make out his face. The hooded man lifted one wing of his arm for Caroline to grasp as he escorted her back towards the dressing room. She graciously took the offer, now leaning more of her weight on him.  **“May I ask… Why you’re always wearing a cloak?”** The man didn’t respond, but he did remove the hood to reveal a masked face. Caroline smiled.  **“That’s a step in the right direction,”** she encouraged.

Caroline still felt uneasy about the stranger, despite their kind exchange. She looked towards the source of the muffled sound nervously. They were now at the exit of the storeroom. Caroline turned to look at the masked man.  **“Will I see you again?”** she asked.  **“You keep appearing very suddenly, like an apparition.”** The man smiled, but Caroline could only see half of it.

 **“Perhaps,”**  he said.  **“Break a leg.”**

**...**

Despite chatter backstage in which a returning soprano was attempting to set off Caroline for snagging the lead role of Gilda in  _Rigoletto_ , an excited Caroline awaited her entrance for the second scene. She was to sing “Caro Nome” onstage tonight, in front of a sea of invisible faces. The lights of the theatre were more magnificent than she thought possible; much different than her experiences back at home performing. They gave a heavenly glow to the room around her. Desperate to get into the momentum of a woman in love, Caroline - with help of a proper cane from wardrobe - made her way out to the stage and began her aria:  
  
 _Caro nome che il mio cor_  
festi primo palpitar,  
le delizie dell'amor  
mi dêi sempre rammentar!  
Col pensiero il mio desir  
a te ognora volerà,  
e pur l’ ultimo sospir,  
caro nome, tuo sarà.

Her mechanics proved intact as she came out victorious from every leap and bound that the aria required of her voice. Caroline even managed to visibly act out the loving words of the lyrics in a way that she hadn’t been too confident she would connect with - her experience in romance being lower than that of her peers. From high above the stage, wanting eyes peered down at her behind a familiar mask. A pang ran through the man’s veins as he heard her high notes and saw her emotion; a woman capable of great love. Of his love.  **“She brings light to this music,”** he said softly before turning to retreat into the darkness of the hidden pathways still un-walked by many in the monstrous opera house.

When Caroline had completed her part, she delicately navigated the rest of the scene and exited when it was her time, thrilled with her performance. Her handler ran to her and gave her a soft hug before helping her back to the dressing room to rest and be ready for her next entrance. Rosetta was waiting, resting on a stool, and looking ready to take a nap. Caroline worried the years were starting to show on the elderly hand.  **“Rosetta,”** she whispered, laying a hand on her shoulder.  **“You should go rest.”**

The woman sat up straighter and smiled.  **“Don’t worry about me, dearie,”** she said, in familiar vibrato.  **“I’ll be just fine.”**

Caroline settled onto the stool next to her new crew-friend and set the loan cane against the vanity while she dabbed small blots of sweat from the lights and exertion from her forehead.  **“I saw him again,”** she said softly.

Rosetta looked the singer up and down from her place and gave a warm smile.  **“Your ghost?”**

 **“Not a ghost, it would seem, but a masked man,”** Caroline replied.  **“He removed his hood… Figures there would be another thing hiding his face, though.”**

 **“Maybe he’ll remove that and there will be an eyepatch underneath.”**  A smoker’s laugh with a little pain and humor escaped the woman’s mouth.

Caroline batted her away with a hand.  **“He keeps appearing everywhere, but I don’t even know his name, and I’d like to.”**

Rosetta didn’t say anything for a while. Caroline looked to her expectantly and saw a change of expression on her face.  **“Just be careful, young one,”** the woman advised.  **“You never know who might be lurking behind shadows.”**

The first night was complete with a standing and cheering audience, giving Caroline the hopes that this offer would lead to more for her in the future. She happily told her handler it was time for her to rest. Like most of the cast, she was offered a lovely room in a secured hall on an upper level complete with suites for each performer. Caroline was desperate to fall asleep soon, so she accepted the offer without hesitation. She couldn’t rightfully go to sleep breaking routine, however. While in a comfortable, silk nightgown provided to her, she drew a hot bath in the large bowl-shaped tub of her suite and settled on the edge of her bed waiting for the water to warm and to read through the last page of a book she had yet to finish. The only sounds in the suite were of her soft breathing, the turning of pages and the muffled sound of the bath filling. Caroline stepped to the bathroom and gently settled into the tub, turning off the faucet once the suds she had created were up to her collar bone. She felt as though she were covered in lavender-scented clouds.

Hidden underneath the suds, Caroline wriggled her toes through the water and looked up at the gold-leafed ceiling of her room. She wished this wasn’t just a weekend accommodation. Caroline didn’t desire luxe, but she wouldn’t deny it, either. The room was beautiful. A window almost as tall as the wall light up the bathroom with the stars and moon, and Caroline let her eyes follow the pattern of what she thought could be the little dipper, but she didn’t really know. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the wave of fabric outside of her window and her eyes darted towards it. Knowing it couldn’t be a curtain, she carefully reached for a towel and wrapped it around herself, and headed for her nightgown again, pulling it on out of the view of whoever might be lurking - though she secretly hoped it was the masked man. Once secured, she pulled out a sweater laid out on her nightstand and headed towards the window, opening it slowly and peering out as she did so. The masked man was there, on the terrace next to hers, watching the moon. He turned to her suddenly, stiff and unprepared, but his posture loosened as he saw that it was her. Both terraces were narrow in width, with only but a small gap between them. If Caroline were of a fitter kind, she could leap between all of the terraces along the wall with no fear of falling. Caroline braced herself against her cane to pull herself up to the landing. The wind’s chill had settled sometime in the evening; Caroline was sure it wasn’t going to get too much colder that night, making note to turn off her heater when she was to wake the next morning.

Between the man and Caroline, no one said anything, they just stared at the night sky. Caroline finally broke the silence:  **“Do you stay here?”** she asked.

 **“You could say that,”** he replied.  **“This room is often left empty, so I use it.”**

 **“Is it as nice as mine?”** she asked, looking to him.  **“They really gave me the works here.”** Her smile was bright. The masquerade-ready man noted that when he made eye-contact with her and smirked.

 **“Likely not as nice as yours.”** All too trusting, Caroline crossed her arms around her body - hugging her sweater as close as she could - and asked him to see it.  **“I’ll meet you at your door,”** he replied and exited the terrace quickly.

The room next to Caroline’s was dusty but she could tell it was once very beautiful, just as hers was. She looked around as the masked man held his arm out for her - just as he had done in the storeroom - and they took the tour.  **“Mine may not be as shiny as yours, but it’s home…”** he said, sounding somewhat shameful.

 **“If you love it, I love it,”** Caroline replied with a bright smile. The response made the man relax.

 **“Let me show you the rest,”** he replied excitedly, pulling on her only slightly towards a covered mirror. He lifted the velvet tarp to reveal a hidden doorway to what was one of the darkest staircases Caroline had ever seen. Nervous, she allowed him to walk her down each step, guiding the way by candlelight. Deeper and deeper the pair plunged into the darkness until finally a softer glow appeared at the end of the tunnel, and a landing made of stone appeared, to Caroline’s relief. The lair that revealed itself to her had golden candelabras lighting every corner, covered mirrors with velvet curtains and tarps - that Caroline wandered if they led anywhere else - and a small curtained off area that appeared to be the man’s sleeping quarters. Where there wasn’t a stone path there was water, like a canal, stretching further than she could see.

 **“This is beautiful…”** Caroline whispered. The man was pleased, and let go of her to allow her to explore. He sat down on a stool, giving her a chance to touch everything.  **“So, this is where you live?”** The man nodded and shook his cloak off of his shoulders revealing plain clothing beneath. The mask was still in place. Caroline approached him, the sound of her heels and cane  _tapping_ against the rough stone beneath her step. When she stood only a foot from him, the man looked up to her with kind eyes.  **“Why do you live alone?”** she asked.

 **“That’s the card life has dealt me,”** he replied grimly.

**“That doesn’t seem very fair.”**

**“Life isn’t fair.”**

Caroline pondered on that before stamping her cane into the ground.  **“Life can be fair in spite of its irony,”** she demanded, pointing towards herself. The man was silent, then smiled.

 **“I suppose life was fair enough to bring you to me,”** he replied.

Caroline took pause; butterflies fluttered her stomach and she reached up to cover them. **“You barely know me,”** she replied.

**“As do you me.”**

**“I suppose we could change that,”** she said.  **“What’s your name?”**

**“…Erik. Though you may have heard some refer to me as the Phantom.”**

**“Why do they call you that?”**

**“Why did you think I was a ghost?”**

Caroline felt foolish, and she didn’t have a response ready for him. She sat down on the bench next to Erik, and the two looked ahead not saying anything.

 **“Do you ever go outside… Not at night on a terrace?”** she asked.

**“The last time I did that was a long time ago.”**

**“Maybe the world has changed from what you remember.”** She put a hand on his arm.  **“We could go together.”**


End file.
